


Boom Boom Baby

by rowanashke



Series: Domestic Bliss is Totally Overrated [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:52:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanashke/pseuds/rowanashke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's still wrestling with complicated feelings, Greg's still just kind of hanging on, and Sherlock...oh, who the hell can figure out what's going on in his head? But something happens that might change things. Will change things. </p><p>Mostly relationship building, interaction and a very slow build-up from Sherlock/John to Sherlock/John/Greg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boom Boom Baby

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the third installment. Sorry it's so slow on the build, but really, it's not something they'd realistically jump into. This story is stealing time from my epicy Avenger's story, but I can't seem to stop coming back to it. 
> 
> Once again, I apologize for being non-British and attempting to use British slang. If I get something glaringly wrong feel free to drop me a line and let me know; the internet is only so helpful when it comes to things like this, but not to use them would feel really wrong.
> 
> No beta, so any errors are entirely mine. And I don't care, nyah. Well, I mean, I do care but not that much? Or something. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

John yawned and rubbed the back of his head, glancing sideways to where Sherlock was sitting, hunched over the microscope. They’d been in the lab for almost nine hours without a break-either physical or on the case-and John was pretty much ready to curl up in the corner and take a nap.

Wouldn’t be the first time. Honestly, they should just put some cots in here or something.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice annoyed. “Stop staring at me.”

“Sorry.” John said, rolling his eyes. “I’m going to get something to eat. I know you’re not hungry, but would you eat something small if I got it for you? It’s been almost sixteen hours since you ate.” Or slept. Or took a bath.

Sherlock sighed, expressively, giving John an exasperated look. “Would it shut you up?”

“Yes.” John said, smirking a little.

“Fine.” Sherlock huffed. “Small.”

“Sir, yes sir.” John ignored Sherlock’s second, more dramatic huff and marched out of the doors. Once out, he dropped the parade-ground strut and stretched, wincing. _God, more chips out of the vendor, I suppose. I doubt anyone will deliver to us this time of night._

He heard the elevator ding and turned, reflexively, bracing himself. But the doors opened on a friendly-if tired-face, and the air that swooshed out carried the delicious, mouth-watering smells of food.

“Has he found anything?” Greg asked, stepping out of the elevator and glancing around.

“No, but he’s sure it’s there.” John said, hurrying over to sniff the other man. “God, what do you have there?”

“Takeaway. Chinese. I figured you’d be starving, since Mr. Impossible there doesn’t bother to stop for food.” Greg said, grinning.

“Gah. I could kiss you, mate. Gimme.”

Greg flushed oddly, but John was too busy ripping the bags out of his hand and investigating to notice. “You got me lime-chicken, you wonderful man. Thanks. I’ll stuff an eggroll down Sherlock’s throat.”

“That is probably not the best choice of words,” Greg said, laughing. “God.”

“What?” John glanced up, froze, then started giggling helplessly. “Oh, my god. I didn’t mean…you are a sick, sick man, Greg Lestrade.”

“Can’t help it. Hang out with the criminal element long enough and  your brain starts warping.” Greg said, pouring the food onto a plate. “Here, eat before you waste away right before my eyes.”

John accepted the plate, grinning, and made very short order of it, eating neatly but rapidly. Finally full, he burped, then patted his stomach. “Thanks. Seriously, thank you. I was going to make do with a bag of crisps and one of those weird stale bun things again.”

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Greg said sternly. “What would Sherlock _do_ if you keeled over? He’d be lost.”

“Certainly less annoyed,” John said, shrugging. Picking up an eggroll, he chuckled. “C’mon. You can watch me molest my boyfriend with an eggroll.”

“Jooohn…” Greg groaned.

Still grinning, John headed back to the lab, where Sherlock was hunched in exactly the same position. If it had been anyone other than Sherlock, John would have wondered if he’d fallen asleep like that. “Oi. You. Sit up straight. Take a five-second break and eat this.”

Sherlock made a sound of vast annoyance, but did as he was told, wincing a bit as he straightened. “I’ve told you before, this body is just a vessel…”

“Shut it.” Greg stuffed the eggroll into his mouth mid-sentence. “That vessel keeps that big brain of yours moving around, so you need to give it fuel every now and then. Even a car needs petrol. Chew, swallow, you know the drill.”

Sherlock glared at him but did as he was told, dutifully polishing off the eggroll. John waited for him to be done, then handed him a napkin, yawning again. “Still can’t identify the two extra chemical signatures in your sample?”

Sherlock accepted the napkin, cleaning his face, then glared at the microscope. “No.” He admitted sulkily. “It’s very vexing. Where is Molly?”

“I told you, Molly’s in the country visiting her sister. She’ll be back tomorrow.”

“I _need_ her.” Sherlock whined.

“And I’m sure she’d be pleased to hear it, but she can’t be reached.” John retorted.

“Too bad Anderson’s not with the force anymore,” Greg said, leaning on the table. “I’m sure he’d have been oh so happy to help.”

The glare Sherlock sent Greg should have burned his hair off. Greg, long inured to Sherlock-glares, just laughed.

“Petrol.” Sherlock froze, his eyes widening. “Of course.”

He dived back for the microscope and Greg raised his eyebrows at John, who just shrugged.

“Ahhh. Got it. John, go home. I’ll be there in about an hour. You might as well go with him, Lestrade. When I return, I’ll tell you everything.” Sherlock looked excited now, all traces of weariness and frustration eased. From the glitter in his eye and the stretch of his thin lips, John knew he really had solved the case-he just needed confirmation.

“You don’t need me along?” John asked, cautiously. Sherlock had a tendency to jump into situations where danger was lurking.

“No. You’d just ask too many questions. Distracting.” Sherlock said, grabbing his coat. “But be ready to tell me how fantastically brilliant I am when I get back.”

John laughed, rolling his eyes. “I promise.”

Sherlock hesitated, then suddenly leaned over, kissing John firmly. Blinking in surprise, John kissed him back. Sherlock stared at him for a moment before turning and rushing out of the lab.

“Want a ride home?” Greg asked. John licked his lips, then sighed.  They tasted a bit like eggroll, damn it.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Mrs. Hudson was already asleep, so they were quiet as they walked up to the flat. Once inside, John kicked off his shoes and headed for the kitchen, trying to remember if they had any milk or not. “Sorry about the mess. Sherlock was looking for something.”

“Wow.” Greg said, walking into the living room and glancing around. “What was he looking for?”

“I have no idea,” John said, putting the kettle on. “Something in a book. Something he couldn’t find, but didn’t want me to help him look for. Every time I tried he batted at my hands and muttered at me.”

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. As John started to gather up the books, Greg moved to help him, ignoring John’s half-hearted protests that he didn’t need to. By the time the kettle was done, the books were back on the shelves-probably out of order, but John didn’t really care.

He’d also found two more cameras. Smirking a bit, John left them where they were-Mycroft would just keep putting them in, and John had long gotten over any particular shyness. _If Mycroft really wants to watch his brother give me hand-jobs…_

He fixed the tea. The DI had already flicked on the telley; they sat in comfortable silence, watching a rerun of a comedy show that soon had them both snorting with laughter. It felt good. Comfortable.

-0-0-0-0-

“John!” Sherlock’s voice jerked John out of a weird semi-nightmare dream where he was trying to scoop sand out of the tub to rescue Sherlock, who was managing to simultaneously die of oxygen starvation while _at the same time_ insulting John’s scooping ability. Sally had been standing on the ceiling for some reason, watching.

“Hgh?” He managed.

“I need you.” Sherlock said. _When did Sherlock get home?_

“Kindly stop drooling on the DI and listen to me,” Sherlock snapped waspishly.

_Drooling on th…oh, shit._

John sat up quickly, wincing as his back creaked ominously. Sleeping half-leaning on someone’s shoulder on the sofa was evidentially not the smartest idea.

“Whatsgoinon?” Greg asked muzzily.

John glanced over to see Sherlock perched impatiently on the chair, giving them both a clearly disgusted look. “Your need for copious amounts of sleep is so _boring_ ,” he snarled. “Wake up. I need John immediately.”

John sighed. It was going to be one of _those_ days. “Mgh. For five minutes or…” he trailed off, raising his eyebrow.

Sherlock hissed. “Call. Now.”

Whatever had gone wrong had clearly pissed Sherlock off; John didn’t argue, just dug for his mobile and dialed the clinic. “Do we have time for tea?”

Sherlock hesitated, his eyes flicking rapidly. “Yes.” He said finally, grudgingly. “Tea.”

“I’ll make it.” Greg said, sounding more awake. “Might as well be useful for _something_.”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate an odd amount of time; John gave him a concerned look but before he could ask the line picked up.

“You’re calling in again, aren’t you?” Sarah asked, resigned.

“Yeah.” John sighed. “Sherlock is…”

“No, I don’t want to know. Honestly. Just promise it’s important?”

“I think it’s very important,” John said slowly, eyeing Sherlock, who was staring out of the window, his slender fingers tapping his knee. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Sarah hesitated, then laughed. “Well, don’t get killed. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“I promise.” John said, smiling. “Bye.”

As soon as he’d hung up, Sherlock suddenly reached out, snatching his phone from his fingers and tapping out a message on the text.

“Oi.” John snapped, frowning. “Use your own?”

“Yours was handy,” Sherlock said absently. “Why reach all the way into my pocket when yours was right there?”

John rolled his eyes. Greg, entering with the tea, snorted and handed a mug to John. “He does that all the time to you as well?”

“Yeah.” John sipped the tea, then grinned. “At least he won’t borrow my clothing. That would be awkward, to say the least.”

“I have better taste in clothing than that,” Sherlock snapped.

“Good thing, too,” Greg replied, his eyes twinkling. “Or he’d be demanding your jumper in the middle of a crime scene after getting acid on his or something.”

“Oh, no…” John said, snickering. “He actually already did that once.”

“Really?” Greg said, his eyebrows going up. “Where was I?”

“Not there. We were over in Wickford, of all places, and Sherlock…”

“If you two are done flirting,” Sherlock snapped without looking up, “Case?”

“We’re not _flirting_ , for god’s sake,” Greg snapped, flushing oddly. “Jesus, Sherlock, can’t John joke around with someone without…”

“It’s alright.” John finished his tea, shaking his head. “He’s just being a total dick. As usual. Sherlock, dear, where are we going?”

Sherlock flashed John a look of total disgust-at the nickname, obviously-then handed John back his cell phone. “Harrow. Hurry.”

John sighed and rose, grabbing his coat from the back of the couch. “Sorry Greg.”

“Don’t worry.” Greg shook his head, then finished his tea. “I’ll just run along home. Call me if anything happens.”

Sherlock was already heading down the stairs. Greg chuckled and shooed John off, then sighed. “Well, that was a fun night,” He said to the skull once they were gone. “Bloody Sherlock Holmes.”

Still, he found himself smiling a little. “He tells me to go home and wait with John, then doesn’t come home all night, _and then_ snatches John and leaves me sitting here. I slept upright on a sofa all night for no reason. No reason.” Greg bustled around, picking up the tea cups and carrying them to the kitchen. “It’s not like I have a job to do, or a life of my own…” He paused, then sighed. “Ok, fine, so I don’t technically _have_ a life of my own right now, I could. If I wanted to. I don’t have to be here, waiting on his stupid whim like some…puppy dog or something…”

Greg suddenly stopped. Because he just realized what he’d been doing. Without thinking about it, washing the tea cups had become straightening up the living room.

“Bloody. Hell. What am I _doing_?” He dropped the book he’d picked up, utterly disgusted. “I’m cleaning up after the stupid prick and _talking to his pet skull_. I’m cracking up. That’s the only explanation. Shit.”

Shaking his head, Lestrade grabbed his coat and pulled it on. “Sod this. I need a bath.”

Still muttering, he left the flat, locking the door behind him.

-0-0-0-0-

Three calls. Two from Sally, requesting that he call her as soon as possible, _probably about the case Sherlock’s fired up about. Bloody hell. I’ll call her after I’ve had a shower and a cup of coffee, just in case I have to go in_ and one from his ex, informing him she was taking the car. The fucking _car_. Greg considered fighting her on it, but really, it was a small price to pay to get her out of his life for good. All the years they’d been together and then, what? Nothing, that’s what. Yeah, sure, their sex life had gone to shit in the last year, but he’d been as frustrated about it as he had and _he_ hadn’t taken to parading around with a series of younger and younger lovers.

 _Wonder what she’d think if I told her the truth,_ he thought with a sigh. _Sorry, sweetie. I’ve decided I’m gay again. Your titties were just not doing it for me anymore._

Sherlock’s fault. Honestly. If you were the _least_ bit bisexual, there was no way to avoid seeing how incredibly _attractive_ the damn bastard was. And utterly beyond hope; Greg had ‘deduced’ that pretty quickly.

_I never should have gone straight to begin with. I guess I just tried too hard to fool myself. I just knew that being openly gay was going to make a career pretty damn hard, so I chickened out. It’s hard to be too angry at her for what she did when I’m the one with the rather terrible secret under my belt._

At least they’d never had children. God forbid.

Greg paid the cabbie and climbed out of the taxi, glancing around. The street was deserted; this time of day most people were either at work, school or out shopping. Nice, quiet neighborhood. Greg rather hated it here, but she’d wanted it. A white picket fence and all the normal shit.

 _I’m selling it,_ Greg decided abruptly. _I don’t want it. It’s too big for me alone. Hell, it was too big for the two of us, but she wanted it. Fuck it._

Climbing the steps, Greg reached out to shove his key in the lock.

Then the world exploded.

-0-0-0-0-

“Sherlock, what are we doing here again?” John asked, trying and failing utterly to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Shh.” Sherlock snapped, staring intently at the pond.

John shifted, rolling his eyes, and glanced around. They were just outside of Harrow, in the middle of nowhere, staring at a muddy, unimpressive little pond. A pond Sherlock seemed to find utterly fascinating. _This had better not be a repeat of the cows incident,_ John thought in disgust. _It took me forever to get the smell of manure out of my jumper._

“Ahhh…” Sherlock said, suddenly smiling. “Got it.”

“Got what?” John demanded.

Sherlock sighed. “A man contacted me two days ago asking if I would investigate the mysterious disappearance of his brother. It seemed boring and I told him no, but he sent me a ransom note last night and I decided to take the case,” Sherlock said, rising and dusting off his knees. “Something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it immediately. After getting the note itself this morning, I realized that it was in fact not a disappearance but a _murder_. A particularly gruesome one; the man who contacted me was just trying to cover his tracks and look innocent when he had actually killed his brother himself. And for what? To marry his brother’s wife. Ridiculous, the lengths you people will go to for a chemical imbalance in your brain…”

“Hey.” John said, looking annoyed. “For one, not _you people_ , thank you, and two, you’re suffering the same chemical imbalance…or you’re lying to me, which…”

“Your inferiority complex is annoying. Adorable, in a very strange way, but annoying never the less.” Sherlock said, then leaned over and kissed John quite thoroughly.

When they parted, Sherlock spun around, picking up the thread of his explanation. “I deduced that he’d murdered his brother here, on his land, and hidden the body away. Had to be unique; the local police had already investigated him and found nothing. Which frankly doesn’t surprise me; the Met might be incompetent but they are amazing when compared to the local…”

“Yes, yes.” John said, still smiling from the unexpected kiss. “Murder?”

“Oh yes. As I was saying, The client murdered his brother here, probably with a club or hammer judging from the amount of blood, and then weighted his body down with stones and threw him in the pond here. All they have to do is drain this pond and the murder will be solved.”

“Now tell me how you did it,” John said with a grin.

Sherlock flashed him one of those curly smiles John was so fond of. “The blood should be obvious, but it’s not because he was very careful. However, if you will notice closely, there are far too many spots where the dirt appears unbroken and smooth…but not caked hard, as it would be if it was truly unbroken land. Therefore, it is obvious that he agitated the dirt to hide the blood and then smoothed it to try to hide his actions. The pond is significantly higher than it normally is-the plants growing around the outside of the pond tell us that-and there has not been any rain in the area for the last two weeks. In addition, there has been no fish activity on the surface of the water despite the many varieties of insects currently dotting about. That means they are feeding on something below the surface-the murder victim. “

“Well done,” John said, honestly impressed. “Home, then?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone. “Let me call the local and tell them…” He paused, then frowned. “No service?”

John frowned as well. _That never happens. How odd._ Tugging out his mobile, he checked it as well, then shook his head. “Strange. Must be a weird little pocket here. C’mon. I’m sure by the time we get to the car you can call them.”

Sherlock glared at his mobile as if it had done something terribly wrong. “Yes.” He finally said, shoving it back into his coat. “Let’s go.”

-0-0-0-0-

Sally stabbed the send button on her phone again, snarling. “Fucking great detective. Asshole, answer your god-damned phone.”

“Donovan…”  Dimmock was standing at the door, looking worse for wear and worried as hell. “We’ve got the list. Three dead, nine in the hospital, nineteen walking wounded, and two unaccounted for…”

“Sherlock and John.” Sally said, glaring at her cell phone. “Fuck.”

She didn’t swear that often; Dimmock didn’t seem to mind. “Yeah.”

“Lestrade’s awake, that’s good news.” Dimmock said softly.

“Yeah.” Sally glanced up from her phone and frowned suddenly. “You should be in hospital…”

“Got checked out. I’m fine. Bullet only grazed my skull. Lots of blood but not a lot of damage,” Dimmock said cheerfully. “Cleared for duty.”

Sally smiled at him, relieved. “Good to hear.”

Dimmock flashed her a quick smile, then disappeared. Sally glanced out at the chaos the Met had become, then back at her phone, silently trying to send her mind spinning out through the airwaves.

_C’mon Sherlock, you fucking weird bastard. Call me, call me, call me…._

-0-0-0-0-

As soon as they had taken nineteen steps towards the car, their mobiles suddenly sprang to life with a vengeance. Surprised, Greg hauled his out, flicking it on. “Nine missed calls and twelve texts…” he said, sounding shocked.

Sherlock was already scanning through his own texts, his eyes flickering. John dialed voicemail and listened to the first one. As he felt the blood running from his face, he lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock’s wide, slightly shocked gaze.

“Drive. Now.” Sherlock snapped. John didn’t argue, but turned off his phone and jumped into the car. Sherlock slid next to him, already dialing a number on the phone.

“Sally.” Sherlock said, his voice flat. “Tell me.”

He listened a moment, his eyes narrowing, then nodded. “Yes. Details on the various methods please.”

Another moment; John clenched the steering wheel and reminded himself that smacking Holmes right now would be a bad thing. Very. Bad. Thing.

“Understood. We’ll be there in…” He leaned over, checking John’s speed, narrowed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Fifteen minutes. Get everything you have together and ready for me. And Donovan…”

Sherlock hesitated, then spoke softly. “I’m very glad you’re ok too.”

Hanging up the mobile, he ignored John’s raised eyebrow, flicking through the texts again.

“Sherlock, talk to me or I’m going to bloody well stop this car and beat you to a pulp,” John snapped.

Sherlock blinked, then rolled his eyes. “There was a series of hits played out on every single upper-level Met officer this morning,” Sherlock said quietly. “Along with a small handful of outside players-you and me specifically, but some other various consultants who have been useful to the police over the years.  Sally reports three dead.”

“Greg?” John felt a wash of cold fear tighten his stomach.

“Hospital. His house was blown up but he escaped major injury. Dimmock got shot at but managed to duck, Sally was also shot at but moved at just the right moment. Molly was shoved down a flight of stairs-she’s in critical in the hospital.”

“Oh, Jesus, Sherlock…”

“I know. Sally is getting all the evidence together for me. We will find out who’s responsible.” Sherlock’s voice was flat and utterly cold; John, glancing at him, felt a chill of his own.

People did not fuck with Sherlock’s world. Moriarty had been the last one to affect him so much. “Sherlock…d’you think it’s….him?”

“He’s dead.” Sherlock said calmly.

“Yeah? Well, so were you.” John pointed out.

“He’s _dead_ , John. You can’t fake a gunshot to the head.” Sherlock glanced out the window, then frowned. “This is something else. I don’t think it was personal towards me, I believe it was a message to the government. Besides, most of the hits were botched. If it was Moriarty, it would have been the other way around, with most of the hits being successful. I think we’re dealing with some kind of criminal organization. Black Rings, perhaps, or the United Underground. Someone not from London, but with contacts inside the city. The various ways the hits were carried out speaks of a large organization but the sloppiness speaks of a small core of dedicated fanatics surrounded by a larger group of avid hangers-on. Lots of enthusiasm but no real training.  Underground fits better…” He hesitated, then sighed, making a face. “I’m going to have to call Mycroft.”

“Yeah, do that.” John said, glancing sideways at him. “I know you hate it, but we need him on this one.”

Sherlock sighed, expressively, then tugged out his mobile again. “Five of these messages are from him,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Typical Mycroft. Excessive.” Hitting speed-dial, he turned away, glaring out at the country-side.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Sherlock said, sounding waspish. “I need your information concerning terrorist groups operating within London. No. Bigger than that, but disorganized and messy. Lots of little cells. Yes. No. Yes. N..wait. Yes. Met. Yes. No. He’s with me. Fine. No.”

Sherlock’s expression twisted. “No.”

After a second, he hung up without bothering to say goodbye, looking ruffled. “Mycroft insists I give you a kiss. From him.”

John blinked, then giggled. “Oh. Uh. Save it for later, but that’s very sweet.” Privately he snickered; Mycroft couldn’t resist getting under Sherlock’s skin. Too much history there, he knew. Weird history, Holmes-brother style weird, but John knew that Mycroft, at least, actually cared about Sherlock.

Sherlock flashed him a sulky, disgusted look and went pointedly back to digging through texts.

-0-0-0-0-

For a brief moment, Sally actually looked like she wanted to hug Sherlock. Then she remembered how much she disliked him, and the moment passed, but there was a definite edge of relief to her attitude-and to the attitude of every officer.

They had turned on him, and they had given him the cold shoulder. But now, in their desperate need, they welcomed him back. As usual, John had to struggle with his feelings of anger and betrayal on Sherlock’s behalf as he watched the officers swirling and moving, jumping to Sherlock’s barked instructions.

Dimmock, at least, had never once turned on Sherlock. Had been, in fact, vocal about his support to the point that his job had come under serious fire. He’d held firm and weathered the storm, but there was a definite edge of world-weariness about him these days.

And the man practically worshipped Sherlock.

 _Good thing Sherlock’s not the type,_ John thought with weary amusement. _Or I’d be worrying about Dimmock more. I think the man would blow Sherlock in the office in front of everyone if Sherlock demanded it. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard Sally call him freak but a handful of times since he came back from the dead. Guilt, maybe? God knows she deserves a healthy helping of it. Greg, at least, put up a fight for Sherlock._

John watched the swirling chaos, of which Sherlock was the confident, cold center, and felt a little like one of those nature people watching a herd of lions. Outside, but weirdly connected. Useless but important. He was used to it, really.

“Coffee?” Sally was suddenly beside him, holding a couple of mugs. John grimaced but accepted the mug, knowing without sipping it that it was going to be disgusting. Police seemed unable to make a cup of either coffee or tea that wasn’t disgusting. Still, it was warm and he needed the caffeine.

“Any luck?” He asked, glancing sideways at the woman.

“Yeah.” Sally frowned, then shook her head. “Sherlock’s been on the phone with someone he doesn’t like at all, but who seems to have inside information.” She glanced sideways at him, raising her eyebrows, but John only smiled. “They think they know who. Now they’re just pinning down the where and why.”

“He’ll have it soon.” John said, sipping the terrible coffee.

“Yeah.” Sally grimaced, then sipped her own. “John…” She hesitated, then sighed. “Ah, I’m bad at stuff like this. I’m just…I wanted you to know that I was genuinely worried. About you and…well, about him, too, I suppose.”

John glanced sideways at her, then smiled, briefly. “Thank you.” He said after a moment.

She raised her mug in a salute, and then headed back into the chaos, leaving John to sip his coffee, watch the show, and struggle with old grudges.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“John, wake up.” Sherlock’s voice; John dragged himself from yet another weird nightmare. The details of this one were thankfully fuzzy. “Mgh?”

“I’ve solved the case.” Sherlock said. John’s eyes snapped open; Sherlock’s voice was ragged. Reaching out, John automatically steadied him as the other man swayed. “Everything is wrapped up. Mycroft’s got people rounding up the various cells. They probably won’t get everyone but they’ll get most of them, and it’s Mycroft’s problem now. I want to go to the hospital.”

“Hosp…Sherlock, are you alright? What happened?” John snapped the rest of the way awake, almost frantically searching Sherlock for some signs of injury.

“Not for me,” Sherlock snapped, and the _you idiot_ was clearly heard if not actually said. Long practice allowed John to completely ignore it. “I want to see Lestrade.”

John blinked, opening his mouth, but decided better and shut it again. Sherlock didn’t _do_ hospitals; even when john had been in, the last time, he’d barely made an appearance. Which meant he was more worried and upset about Lestrade than John had anticipated. Which was good, really. A good sign. Which meant that John needed to be very casual and calm about it, or risk scaring an emotionally skittish Sherlock away from it.

“Alright. Get my coat.” John said, releasing Sherlock. “What time is it?”

“six AM.” Sherlock handed John his coat, then stretched carefully, swaying again. “Mycroft’s already called the hospital and gotten permission for us to visit, calling it a ‘police matter’.”

“Ah.” John wasn’t fooled for a moment, but he allowed himself to appear as if he were. Sherlock would know in a second, but then again, he might not let himself look. There was nothing so stupid as a genius trying to fool himself.

As promised, when they arrived at the hospital they didn’t run into any snags. The nurse ushered them into Greg’s room with some warnings about keeping it calm and not being too long, warned him that they had Greg on some fairly heavy-duty pain medication, then disappeared, leaving them alone with the man in the bed.

He looked like hell; John felt his heart contract. Wrapped in bandages, bruised, battered, hooked to machines…Greg looked smaller, somehow, and fragile in a way that you’d never believe when he was awake and on his feet. “Greg…”

The DI’s eyes fluttered open; for a moment he couldn’t seem to focus them, but finally pushed through the drugs enough to come to a sense of _herenow_. “Sherl’k, John.”

“Yes.” Sherlock moved closer, looking for all the world like he wanted to take Greg’s hand but not. “l just wanted to tell you that we got them.”

Greg blinked a moment, then smiled, gently. “Thank you.”

Sherlock smiled, then sighed. “Your house is gone.”

Greg snorted. “Didn’t wan it anyway,” he said, smiling still. “Goo’ riddance.”

Greg shifted, then slid his hand out, reaching for Sherlock. Sherlock hesitated, then gingerly took it, lacing his fingers with Greg’s. “Allright?” Greg asked, frowning a little. “You allright?”

“Yes.” John said softly, smiling. “We’re fine, Greg.”

“We weren’t in London,” Sherlock said, his eyes on their joined hands. “Our would-be assassins went to Baker street but when we never showed up, left. “

Greg slid his other hand out and John took it without hesitation, curling his fingers into Greg’s. “Mrs. Hudson never even knew there was anything going on. This time.”

Greg huffed a laugh, then closed his eyes, tugging them so he could put their hands on his chest. “’m glad. Worried ‘bout you.”

“We’re fine.” John repeated, glancing at Sherlock. “I promise. You’re the one who got hurt this time.”

Another huffy laugh. “Happens.”

They stood in silence for a time, then Greg sighed. “Sleepin. Drugs keep me down. G’home, you two, sleep. Love you both…”

And he was out; John blinked, smiling stupidly, then gently freed his fingers from Greg’s. Smoothing the blanket, he ran his eyes over the charts, not really checking up on the doctors-they knew what they were doing-but just reassuring himself that there wasn’t anything seriously wrong with Greg.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly. “You ready to go home?”

“Yes.” Sherlock jerked himself out of his daze-John suspected he’d been half-asleep-then gently unwound his fingers from Greg’s as well. “I need to sleep.”

“And eat.” John said firmly. Ignoring Sherlock’s face, he tugged the taller man from the room, then tracked down the nurse and gave her their mobile numbers, telling her fiercely to call them if anything changed or if Geg woke and wanted them.

As he tugged Sherlock down the hall, he felt an odd, warm glow in his chest. _Love you both_ , Greg had said. _Love you._

 _Oh, god. I’m in so much trouble right now._ And yet John couldn’t make himself deny how good that had felt. _I’ll think about it later. Much later. Much, much later._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Next time, more action. Y'know, "action". I promise.


End file.
